


No man is an island (but the couch might be)

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [10]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (aka Alfie saying Alfie-things), (and some general sullen-ness), (because some people are in a terrible fucking mood), Also there's some..., Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, PWP, Physical restraining going on, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: Tommy has been watching him out of the corner of his eye; not sure if Alfie has noticed yet or not. It’s like he’s staring right through the page and off into another dimension, really, brow furrowed a bit, with his eyes fixed at something that isn’t even there.In which Alfie is in a terrible mood and Tommy isn't really here for it.(Possible stand-alone, but part of an overall bigger AU. You know the drill.)





	No man is an island (but the couch might be)

Alfie is in a terrible mood.

It’s different from a bad mood – if he’s in a bad mood, everybody within a ten mile radius will know within the hour, because there is shouting and cursing, and he’ll generally act like a child that has to wear nice clothes for some important occasion, even though it _doesn’t fucking want to._

When he’s in a bad mood, he tends to lash out – he’ll unabashedly insult people and their mothers, and sometimes he’ll throw things with surprising accuracy. It’s a very external process and, hilariously enough, reminds Tommy of Arthur in one of his fits of rage sometimes; in principle more than anything, because with Alfie, there never seems to be the same danger of complete loss of control lurking underneath. It makes his bad moods a lot more annoying and a lot less worrying at the same time.

When he’s in a terrible mood, however, he gets quiet and morose, staring off into space and muttering to himself, mind a thousand miles away. Tommy is aware that he’s dealing with some kind of internal issue at the moment – doesn’t know any of the details, naturally, because it hasn’t taken them much trial and error to figure out that everything goes a lot smoother if they stick to their respective enterprises.

There’ll be some vague conversations about various things from time to time, and of course neither one of them is dumb or blind, so usually they’ll know the rough outline of whatever situation is going on, but it’s not like they discuss anything in detail.

Tommy hasn’t asked about it until now, because he is pretty sure that Alfie – who’ll grumble and complain, but usually isn’t bothered by much, at least not in private – would actually take that as an insult. As long as nobody actively tries to kill him, Tommy thinks, he’s not going to try and get involved. After all, Alfie knows what he’s doing, most of the time, and in addition to that, he seems to have some kind of sixth sense when it comes to people trying to fuck him over that is actually kind of scary. 

Well. Takes one to know one, Tommy supposes.

It’s not that he minds the overall atmosphere, exactly. They’re in Alfie’s living room, Tommy in one of the armchairs with his legs drawn up, outlining the contents of some letters, to be cleaned up and fully typed out later, using the hard surface of one of Alfie’s giant, gold-bound encyclopedia volumes as a base, propped up against his thighs. He’s only halfway paying attention to what he is actually doing.

Alfie is lying on the couch in one of his long-sleeved undershirts, ankles crossed on top of one of the large armrests, pretending to read. He looks the part – got the book open with its spine straight, holding it down against his chest with one hand, four fingers hooked over the top to keep the pages apart. He hasn’t actually turned a page in the last fifteen minutes.

Tommy has been watching him out of the corner of his eye; not sure if Alfie has noticed yet or not. It’s like he’s staring right through the page and off into another dimension, really, brow furrowed a bit, with his eyes fixed at something that isn’t even there. His free hand, the one that isn’t occupied holding the book, is continually in motion; he keeps rubbing his fingers together, turning his rings around, pressing fingertips against his fingernails.

On the one hand – it is what it is, Tommy thinks, and it’s not like _he_ doesn’t have a lot of days where he’s preoccupied with something else, after all. But on the other hand… it makes Tommy’s skin _itch_ just looking at him.

It’s like he’s not even really there.

Tommy lets it go on for another five minutes, and then he stops writing and waits for a reaction. When there is none, he starts putting the pages in order and then carefully puts everything back inside his leather briefcase, so Alfie won’t be able to catch a glimpse of any of it – because there _is_ some delicate balance of trust between them that has managed to establish itself almost by accident; but an open door might tempt a saint, as the saying goes, and Alfie might be a lot of things, but he’s never been a fucking saint in the first place.

He places the whole pile on top of the coffee table – encyclopedia volume, briefcase, stack of unused paper, pencils – not exactly trying to be quiet about it, but not making an unnecessary spectacle either, and then he puts his socked feet on the ground. Alfie still hasn’t moved.

Tommy gets up, crosses the room in three steps and straddles him, snatching the book out of his hand in the process. 

Alfie stares up at him, almost bewildered, like he forgot Tommy was even there and is now wondering where the fuck he even came from. Tommy can feel him pulling his legs down and away from the armrest behind his back. Without breaking eye contact, he holds his arm out and lets go of the book, which lands on the floor with a heavy thud. Something in Alfie’s expression shifts, then – not quite anger, more like he’s accepting a challenge. He pushes himself upright, very slowly, with his arms straight out behind him, until they’re face to face.

“I was reading that, mate,” he says. “Case you hadn’t noticed.”

“And now you’re not reading it anymore,” Tommy says, impassive.

“Yeah…” Alfie says. “And whose fuckin’ fault is that, I wonder.”

“Haven’t turned a page in at least ten minutes,” Tommy says. His hands have gone to Alfie’s shoulders automatically, fingers lightly twisting the fabric of his shirt. He feels rock solid – strong line of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders, warmth of his skin seeping through the material.

“Hmm… is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is.”

They’re so close by now they might as well be kissing, but for some reason they’re not quite going there. Alfie is waiting on him, Tommy realizes, probably wants to see what he is going to do. There is a strange energy between them – defiant, almost, the air charged with possibility.

“So you was just over there, thinking to yourself… what? He’s not reading, right, so we might as well do something else instead? Hm?”

Tommy purses his lips, like he’s not sure what Alfie means by that, even though that’s _exactly_ what he was thinking. He rocks his hips forward a bit, barely any movement at all, just enough to get the point across. Alfie’s eyebrows go up, almost mockingly, which should simply be annoying, but is annoying _and_ a fucking turn-on instead.

He’s not even touching Tommy, because he needs both of his arms to keep upright, but it doesn’t seem to matter at all, because he’s _paying attention_ now, looking at Tommy with his usual, unblinking focus and Tommy couldn’t even explain why, but that is enough; that basically amounts to the same thing. It’s one of those things he absolutely refuses to examine too closely.

He kisses Alfie instead, once, not quite chaste but close, lingering a bit before pulling away.

“Hmm,” Alfie says, and his voice has gone gratifyingly low. “That supposed to be a suggestion on your part?”

Tommy shrugs, trying to look like he couldn’t care less about what is going to happen next.

“No?” Alfie murmurs, sounding kind of amused, but there is an edge underneath that makes heat pool low in the pit of Tommy’s stomach. “No idea how this is gonna go, do you, you silly boy.”

Tommy kisses him again, because the alternative would be to shake his head in confirmation and honestly, Alfie doesn’t need that kind of encouragement. Alfie makes a satisfied noise against his mouth and licks at his lower lip, and then they’re really kissing. It goes on for a while, until Alfie gently pushes him backwards a bit with his whole body and they separate again.

“All right,” he says, still so close Tommy can feel his breath ghosting over his mouth when he speaks. “The way I see it, right? What’s gonna happen now is this… you’re gonna get up, yeah? And you’re gonna get on your fuckin’ knees for me.”

Tommy involuntarily rocks against him, because he wasn’t really planning on anything specific, but as soon as Alfie says it he’s flooding with heat, has to take a deep breath through his nose, because _yes,_ this is what he wants, this is exactly what’s going to happen here.

He slides off the couch and down to the floor before Alfie has even finished pushing himself upright, which he does with a grunt, and when he plants his feet on the floor, Tommy shuffles between his legs immediately.

“Want a pillow?” Alfie asks.

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, honestly irritated, because if Alfie thinks he needs to be fucking _coddled-_ except Alfie is already holding the bloody thing out to him and when Tommy refuses to take it, he drops it on the floor, much like Tommy did with the book earlier. Then his hand is on Tommy’s face, grabbing him by the chin and forcing his head up, and while it doesn’t hurt, he’s not being too gentle about it either.

“You’re gonna be down there for a while, mate – so you fuckin’ take it, yeah, and you _get comfortable.”_

It’s like somebody flipped a fucking switch somewhere, because Tommy gets hard so fast he feels almost dizzy with it.

“Yeah,” he says, more breath than actual sound.

“Fuckin’ what was that?” Alfie says, and Jesus Christ, he’s using _that_ voice, the one that is just _not_ _interested_ in any objection to anything he might have to say; completely transformed now, authority gathering around him like storm clouds. 

“All right,” Tommy says, swallowing. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah,” Alfie agrees. “That’s what I thought.”

He waits for Tommy to get settled, not doing anything to help, arms by his side, looking almost relaxed – like he expects nothing less, like this is his fucking _due,_ which makes Tommy fucking _itch_ to get a reaction out of him, to make him fucking lose it. He unbuttons Alfie’s trousers without preamble and then pulls everything down when Alfie lifts up a bit, including his underwear – and he’d be lying if he said that it wasn't immensely satisfying that Alfie is half-hard already.

Tommy curls a hand around the base of his cock and licks at him with the flat of his tongue, slow and precise, getting him nice and wet – because first of all, Alfie does this all the time, just to be an asshole, and second of all, because he really likes doing it, likes the texture and the smell, the way Alfie gets hard against his tongue.

Alfie’s hand comes to rest on top of his head, fingers scratching through his hair almost absentmindedly. He’s comfortably settled against the back of the couch by now, legs sprawling out a bit. Tommy is well aware that he’s staring at him, even without looking up; he can feel Alfie’s gaze on him like an actual, physical sensation.

He’s trembling, almost, because he loves doing this, and at the same time he’s kind of terrified, like there is some primal, leftover fear he just can’t get over, which for some strange reason seems to amplify his arousal instead of dampening it, each and every time.

When Tommy sucks him into his mouth, Alfie makes a low, pleased noise, his fingers pressing down a bit harder against Tommy’s scalp. Tommy’s never been able to swallow him down completely – not yet, anyways – but he fists the base to make up for it, everything slippery wet with spit already, and hollows his cheeks. Above him, Alfie takes a deep, hissing breath that seems to go straight to Tommy’s own cock.

He manages to set up a rhythm, fast enough to get somewhere, slow enough to enjoy it – all the while clutching at Alfie’s thigh with his free hand, fingers digging in helplessly at the taste of pre-come on his tongue.

“Fuckin’ _hell,_ how the fuck are you so _good_ at this,” Alfie murmurs eventually, hoarse as anything.

Then there’s a hand on Tommy’s face, thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth, _God,_ fuck. He’s taking deep, shaky breaths through his nose, bobbing his head up and down, trying to ignore how heavy his own cock feels, pressing against the seam of his trousers.

“Just… look at you, yeah,” and Alfie is babbling now, which is a sure sign that he is getting close. _“Fuck,_ like you were fuckin’ _made_ for this-”

Tommy does make a noise at that, a low whine in the back of his throat, can’t even help himself, because Alfie saying things like that _always_ gets to him, and Alfie groans, “Oh _fuck me,_ fuckin’ _hell-”_ and then he’s shoving up a bit, not really an issue since Tommy is still gripping his cock, and comes – head thrown back and panting up at the ceiling with his mouth hanging open.

Tommy swallows him down, bitter salt in the back of his throat and keeps going until Alfie pulls him off. He looks wrecked, color high on his cheeks, staring at Tommy like he’s the only thing in the world that even exists.

“Get up and get that off,” he says after a few seconds, still out of breath, pulling at Tommy’s shirtsleeves and Tommy scrambles to his feet immediately, even though his legs feel unsteady.

While he unbuttons his shirt, Alfie’s hands go to his waist, opening his trousers and then he’s pushing everything down unceremoniously, so Tommy can step out of it. Tommy lets the shirt fall to the floor behind him and then Alfie is pulling him down onto the couch, making him lie down on his back. Tommy goes without protest, so turned-on he can’t even think around the static buzz filling his head, and then they’re kissing deeply, Alfie halfway on top of him, pushing one of his legs between Tommy’s thighs.

And then, all of a sudden, he’s taking hold of Tommy’s wrists and before Tommy even knows what’s happening, Alfie has them pinned above his head, lightning quick. Arousal hits him like a gut shot, almost – he makes a frantic noise and instantly tries to twist out of Alfie’s grip, on pure instinct alone, because _fuck,_ fucking _Christ,_ this is not fair, that asshole, he can’t just-

But of course, Alfie outweighs him, it’s just a bloody fact, and with him on top like this, leaning down and putting all of that weight into the grip he has on Tommy’s wrists, it’s simple physics – he’s got all of the leverage and Tommy hasn’t, even though he is really fucking _trying_ to get out of it now.

“Calm down,” Alfie tells him, very matter of fact. He seems a bit winded, but that might just be from the orgasm.

“Fuck you,” Tommy spits – and in his mind, he wants to convince himself that he is trying to move _away,_ that he’s trying to get his body out from under Alfie’s weight, except of course he isn’t, that isn’t what is happening _at all;_ what he’s really doing is grind up against Alfie’s thigh, all the muscles in his legs tensing at the friction.

“You started this, mate,” Alfie says. “So I figure, you’re gonna fuckin’ come like this, yeah? By yourself and everything.”

“No, I’m not,” Tommy hisses back at him, furious. “I’m not, Alfie, I fucking _can’t-”_

Except that is not true, he realizes, trying to pull his arms to the side and away, which, oh _God,_ he might as well haven’t done anything at all, because he’s not going _anywhere._

“Sure you can,” Alfie says, oh so casual, like he’s telling Tommy he’ll catch his train no problem, if he leaves right now. “Look at you – _fuck,_ you’re already halfway there.”

And he is _right,_ is the infuriating thing, he is absolutely fucking right and Tommy’s not sure what is showing on his face right now, heart hammering in his throat, but it must be _something,_ because Alfie blinks at him, once, and then he’s closing the distance between them and kisses him. It feels like relief, even if there’s nothing nice or calm about it from Tommy’s side; he’s biting at Alfie’s mouth, sucks on his lower lip to the point where it has to hurt, and Alfie just _lets_ him, easy as anything, a sharp contrast to the way he’s still holding him down with an iron grip.

They’ve found some kind of rhythm now, Alfie pushing his thigh down and against Tommy’s aching cock in tiny, barely-there movements, which for some fucking reason seem to make all the difference in the world. Tommy has to break the kiss at some point, head swimming from the lack of oxygen, feeling like he’s burning up from the inside; almost, _almost_ fucking there-

Alfie stays close, pressing their foreheads together, even though they’re not kissing anymore; Tommy is just desperately panting against his mouth now, rocking against him with no finesse at all, and when he tries to buck up, half out of his mind with want, Alfie rides it out so fucking _easily,_ keeping him pinned down, and there is _nothing he can do about it,_ oh Jesus, _Christ-_ and all of a sudden, no warning at all, he’s _right_ fucking _there-_

Oh, _Jesus._ Fuck.

He comes in a long, drawn-out wave of pleasure, his free leg drawing up and wrapping itself around Alfie’s waist. His head tips back – he can feel Alfie lick at his exposed throat, broad stripe up to his jaw, where he scrapes his teeth almost painfully, and Tommy moans, doesn’t even care how he sounds right now; grinding his pulsing cock against Alfie’s thigh and shuddering through his orgasm helplessly.

After, he keeps his eyes closed for a bit, trying to take deep breaths – he’s well aware that Alfie is watching him, even before Tommy lazily blinks up at him. They look at each other for a moment and then he can feel Alfie loosen the grip around his wrists; he slips his fingers upwards and between Tommy’s own, palm to palm. Tommy clutches at his hands immediately, just a bit, just because he can, because it feels nice to have something to hold onto.

“All right?” Alfie murmurs.

And the thing is, Tommy is well aware that the corner of his mouth is tipping up, and it’s not like that asshole deserves or even needs the validation, but he just feels too good right now – feels like he’s floating, almost – so, fine. Who even cares.

“Fuck you,” he says, instead of giving a real answer, but he’s smiling at the same time, and Alfie stares at him, almost startled, before he bends down and kisses him again, slow and very thorough.

They heave themselves upright after a while, leaning heavily against each other on the couch. Somewhere out in the hallway, a clock chimes – half past eight. Next to him, Alfie lazily rolls his shoulders and then his neck, left to right and back again. When Tommy looks over, he seems pensive, which seems like a step up, at least.

“You’re going to be all right, eh?” Tommy says, suddenly. It ripples the peaceful, post-coital silence like a stone thrown into a calm body of water. He doesn’t know how, but of course, Alfie gets what he is on about immediately.

“And what fuckin’ business is it of yours,” he says – doesn’t sound defensive so much as sullen.

Tommy resists the urge to shrug, reaches for his cigarettes on top of the coffee table instead. He props both of his elbows on his knees when he lights one up, taking a deep drag before he half turns to look at Alfie again. He’s leaning against the back of the couch, both arms hooked over the top of it, stretching to the sides. It would look proprietorial, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still wearing nothing but his undershirt.

“It’s not Ollie, is it?” Tommy says, only half-joking, because while he doesn’t honestly consider that a possibility, it would explain the sullenness. Alfie tilts his head and stares at him for a moment, processing. Then he barks a laugh.

“Yeah, no, ‘course,” he says, honestly amused. “Fuckin’ Ollie, mate… he’s staging a fuckin coup, no doubt about that.”

Tommy resolutely stares at the cigarette between his fingers. “But you’ll be fine?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Alfie mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I don’t plan on… what have you, being fuckin’ _garroted_ tomorrow or anything, yeah? If that’s what you’re asking.”

Tommy shrugs, then murmurs “Like I fuckin’ care.” for good measure.

“Fine, then,” Alfie says, and he’s clearly getting impatient now. “Right. Glad we cleared that up, yeah, lovely conversation as always. I’m fuckin’ starving, by the way. Wanna accompany us to the kitchen?”

And that’s it on _that_ particular subject, apparently.

For the time being, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> FOR THE TIME BEING! (cue the ominous music)
> 
> No, I'm just kidding. I was just in the mood to write something where they were a bit... mean to each other? If that makes sense?  
> Like, in the nicest way possible, but still.  
> (Also, yes, that title is kind of terrible, I'm well aware, leave me alone lol.)
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
